Vincent van Gogh
pencil and charcoal drawing, 1883
She has no gold, no myrrh, no frankincense,
Yet comes to him this night on bended knee
To rock his cradle, not a recompense,
But a gift to him. This is tranquility—
Small girl of five or six in a cotton dress,
A tiny infant sleeping with one hand
Grasping a blanket, warm against his chest,
Cheek resting on a pillow. Understand
There are no halos here, no angel wings
Like Botticelli painted, or Bernard,
And yet the hand that rocks the cradle brings
Us to a place where those of high regard
Bow down and worship, humbled at the sight
Of infinite inhabiting finite.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
A Critique of the New Right Misses Its Target
American conservatism has produced a bewildering number of factions over the years, and especially over the last…
Europe’s Fate Is America’s Business
"In a second Trump term,” said former national security advisor John Bolton to the Washington Post almost…
A Commitment to Remembrance (ft. Andrew Zwerneman)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Andrew Zwerneman joins…
